Attention
by l'amour-the-poet
Summary: Chloe and Davis and the walls of Jericho. Set in the Stop, Start and Reset. universe


Note to: **Tina N. Blair. **I got your review and it made my day. Literally. ;) I remembered that I did have something else set in this universe. I may get around to writing it wholly soon (after Treading Old Ground, my other Chloe/Davis Fic) is done. Meanwhile, though, if you mention one or two sentence prompts that you want expanded, I'll do it/them and post. :)

_**Notes/Warnings:**_ I guess I should explain this. This is a prompt from a friend off my short fic Stop. Start. Reset. Read that first or you probably won't understand this much.

This is set around the time of #18 _**-Attention-**_ and is actually, quite happy. I've read T fics more graphic personally, but it does involve mentions of Chloe and Davis and *the walls of Jericho*. I know. My allusions are so bad. :p

* * *

Life has a tendency to throw curveballs. As far as Chloe's concerned, those curveballs seem to gravitate around her.

It's not like she had expected an old lady's dentures to be the straw the broke the proverbial camel's back. It's not like she expected to be cheerfully drifting in and out of sleep against a wall with Davis curled around her like some huge cat.  
And it's not her fault that the apartment is going to smell like charcoal chicken for the next year. Really.

It had been as typical of a morning as it could be. She'd woken up to the smell of coffee. Homemade Folger's, not Starbuck's this time. (The difference is distinct. Kind of like the difference between smelling an almond and a macadamia nut, only more intense, she'd thought.)  
What she really wanted to do was huddle into the nice clean, warm sheets on his recently abandoned side of the bed. Of course, she was contrary about it.  
She had an important task to accomplish.

She'd walked zombie like to the wardrobe and started yanking out prim articles of clothing. Ever since officially declaring herself Davis's wingman, she had to adopt this policy to keep from getting asked out on too many dates by octogenarian patients in the nursing homes.  
Davis didn't go spiny or anything like that, but she figured it would distract her from sexy thoughts. They were really getting frustrating.

The moment she walked out to the kitchen, her special! monogrammed hulk mug was pressed into her fingers. Indeed, this mug was a powerful thing.  
"Ahhh…"  
Of course he hadn't forgotten the hint of cream or the almond flavor.  
"It is a good morning now."  
She was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when she wondered what made him so cheerful.

"So what's the itinerary, then, oh master of the ungodly morning cheer?"

"Nursing Homes. Medications to Agatha. You remember her. Some checkups..."

_Yes, the cookie lady who used only salt in her recipes. And about four chili peppers. The one who really, really liked to feed the everyday heroes._

"You're blinding me with your optimism. What makes you think we can get away this time?"

"I've got good backup."

She forgot to think that those kind of smiles should be outlawed before eleven p.m. especially if they didn't lead to anything involving chocolate syrup. This is why she wore her mom jeans and her scratchy shirt.

* * *

They'd spent most of their time at those house calls. No exploding buses, no freaky incidents at homes that made Chloe want to force Davis to stay back from the danger. Really, a very rare day for them.

Ever since they got some modicum of control over his insane hulky powers, he had become utterly fixated with jumping into the crux of things, saving people every chance he got. The procedure was simple. He'd go into whatever it was and she'd stay back, just in his sight. He'd stop whatever went on, usually by jumping in the way of bullets, bombs or really psycho nut jobs.  
Then he'd let her call the police while he just looked at her and spines flickered along his face. They'd leave only when they knew someone was on the way. He'd spend the next hour in the apartment, looking like *it* while she talked about whatever nonsense she could come up with.

It wasn't always that simple. Chloe discovered that there were many more different ways to die than she'd imagined. A few times he'd encountered something his other form hadn't adapted to yet. Cyanide gas? Ricin? She'd been the one to call and then haul him back to the apartment until he managed to heal.  
It was so easy to ignore the idea of pain like that without actual death. But she knew what it was like from experience. The memory of dying lingered on like some bizarre phantom limb. And he relived it, sometimes.  
And she couldn't stand the thought of that.

* * *

So then, she found herself resigned into acceptance of the salt-chili cookies. She didn't think they could be quite deadly. Maybe the hundred and tenth time Clark showed up right behind them under the pretext of a top secret story or finding out what was wrong with her she'd give him an example of some real home cooking to reassure him.

* * *

It would have all been the same routine had Agatha not been so delighted at her acceptance of the offering that she'd actually smiled wider than was naturally possible for an alligator. Of course the dentures had fallen out.

Davis had spent about seven minutes searching for them whilst Agatha had halfway understandably expounded on the virtues of a good woman.  
Something about 'sewing into the night' and 'climbing that mountain' and being the great compass of a man's soul'. Chloe had lost most of it.  
She did catch the part about Agatha being glad that since she'd come along such a nice young man had finally come out of his shell.

When Davis did discover a rather ancient looking pair of them with a triumphant grunt, under the third dresser, Chloe realized that Agatha had hidden her real dentures under the blanket.

"Don't look at me like that, girlie. He's a fine specimen. I take what I can get at my age. I know you don't blame me."  
"If you say 'I'd tap that', I will hide them."

* * *

After about eight hours, Chloe felt more restless than ever.

She really started noticing even more of the little things, like how he'd remembered how much she hated when the tomato touched the meat in packed ham sandwiches, and avoided it. (She'd rambled about that when she'd been trying to remember who she was, and he'd been fighting *it* that second day.) She noticed how he always seemed to turn toward her, no matter who walked up to them tail gaiting on the ambulance at lunch hour. She noticed that there was slightly sad set to his eyebrows when he watched her and she pretended to be enthralled with her lettuce.  
_Two more hours and they were going to talk about this._

* * *

"Since we're always honest with each other I just wanted to let you know that this is not going to work." She'd said.  
He had looked properly devastated while she reconsidered her word usage.

"I mean, the dancing about. You know. It's like that ancient idea of courtly love. Maiden in the tower, knight and fantabulous eye sex and this huge tower…you know... It's just like that. You go halfway through seducing me and then make me a cup of coffee."  
"You know how I feel."  
"You've been pretty up front with everything, so why don't you do something about it?"

"You're the one person I have. I'll take whatever you can give me."  
"Good. Come on then. It's only two feet. I really don't bite, much."

"You know what happens. If I end up hurting you…"

"You know I feel things and I noticed. And you wouldn't hurt me. You turn quite human even when you're technically not."  
She noticed the slight flicker of his eyelids, one of his subconscious signals for pain, and how he looked caught between snatching her up and pulling back.

"That's it! You meant a Hulk reference, right? You think you might change when you get…excited."  
"Don't you know?"  
"I haven't… not since I met you."  
She didn't say it, but that meant a lot.  
"I'm pretty sure you won't. And even if you did, there are ways around that."  
She thinks it's not easy to be blasé about it, just for this one moment. There's so much tied up in this.

"I don't know how long this will last. If I am evolving, then one day I might be caught in that form forever. I couldn't do that to you."

"So you're afraid of being Hellboy forever. Burn that bridge when you come to it. Everything turned out alright for him. Why not you?"  
"I shouldn't make you take that risk."  
_You'd stay?_  
"It's my prerogative to take the right risks. My resolution, remember.  
Besides, you'd be my Hellboy."  
She'd never really thought in terms of possession before. (Not with Clark. He'd been her world, but he'd never been hers. Not with Jimmy. He'd been tied by loneliness and hope and great gaps where things were never quite easy at all.)

It's like she'd saying those words right back 'I feel like you were sent to me.' The chasms that existed between them- his fear, her fear didn't seem like anything at all.

"Maybe I'm not being the good guy, but I can't…"  
She knew he wouldn't be pulling back anymore and for a moment the uncertainty of having everything, just like that burned her. This ought to be too much, too close, to scary.  
But his eyes flickered to her face as if he's trying to say something, seeing something in her and hurting at the same time and she felt grounded.  
But it was like the next logical step in a progression when she leaned and kissed him, or when he leaned and kissed her (perceptions get jumbled like that). She could feel the light pressure of his lips, could feel him breathe, the slight calluses in his palms as their fingers found each other, locking, interlacing, fitting. And it was like before, with no doubt this time, and an intensity that was almost like pain.  
If someone had asked her her own zip code she wouldn't have been able to string three numbers together.  
There were just the jumbled impressions of the moment- the itchy fabric hitting the floor, ghosting sensations of his fingertips across her skin, her name under his breath and the desperate need to get closer. But he was going slow, drawing it out, trying to prolong every single moment. She thought that if the couch wasn't christened in five minutes, she would most likely explode. The absence of his lips almost physically hurt.

"Two months of sexual frustration and we're going the roundtrip way? Are you trying to kill the Chloe?"  
His pupils were dilated, he was watching her face closely and she wondered if he was going to worry again.

"That was a joke, you know."

"I… I've thought about this."  
"You don't say."  
She was going to respond, but then he discovered exactly how that clasp worked and her noises stopped being coherent.

That was the first time.  
_  
_

* * *

Two hours later she had discovered two things.  
She had barely managed not to explode until something else did (and she didn't mind the least bit).  
and 2. She was ungodly hungry. For actual food, at least until he got up.

In view of that, whilst he'd stirred, she'd maneuvered herself out from him, kissed his cheek and gone to attempt cooking some Chinese. (He always did the ham sandwiches and she was going to pull her weight.)

She wore his shirt in place of a sleeveless comfortable dress, which according to the language of the clothes, could have been a sign of her liberations of the day. Secretly, though, she wouldn't have minded many more of them.

She hadn't been doing bad at all with the chicken, even if she had found herself daydreaming. The salt was present in the right amounts, she had not accidentally spilled in half of the pepper, she hadn't burned her fingers once…

"Hey you."

She was not embarrassed when he found her, red faced, fighting with the placemats stuck in the back of the credenza drawer. They'd never really had embarrassment in their collective vocabulary

She'd said. "I made us some supper. I don't think the result will turn to rubber this time. I figured you'd be hungry. I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Starved."  
She fought on for ten more seconds until he said. "Gimme that."

She ended up enjoying the view quite a bit. It was a crime not to look when he went around shirtless like that. Last time she'd gotten sidetracked by other things.  
And he handed them to her carefully, looking straight at her. He always did that. Always. The corner of his mouth tilted up as he smiled

"Thanks."  
"You're beautiful, you know that?"

Suddenly she wasn't all too eager to take the placemats. He did look happy (really happy. Not scared-happy or guilty-happy, not conflicted in the least way). Not because of anything she'd done but because of her.

"Any more of that today I'll start to get a big head."

She wanted to stick them there, glue them in the moment so there wasn't a chance it could slip away. And she didn't exactly know how.  
She could have hugged him, or kissed him. In the end she settled for a hybrid of both. Her arms hooked over his shoulders and the place mats hung in the air behind him like enormous lobster claws.

He'd kissed back with surprising ferocity. She could feel acutely all the places they touched, then, like her body knew him in a whole different way. She found herself making choked sounds in the back of her throat which his kisses only partially smothered.  
They weren't going to last very long like this. She wanted…  
And, oh God, was he smelling her?  
"You're wearing my shirt." He muttered; somewhere between kiss six and eight.

"Doesn't everybody have a Van Halen t-shirt?"

"They don't have you wearing a Van Halen t-shirt."

She ended up sitting on the table with her legs around his waist, hoping beyond hope that he carried protection in his back pocket if something came up. Of course, he didn't. He wasn't exactly the Jimmy type and there was just them.  
He ran to the room faster than she'd ever seen him.  
She distracted herself from the strange aching for those few seconds by hiding the placemats. They weren't going to use the things anyway.

When he came back, he found her on the other side of the room. They didn't bother getting back to the table once they started where they left off. He walked forwards, she walked backwards and the wall was a good a place as any.  
Her head was spinning, a lack of air? The fact that she didn't want to stop to breathe? She wasn't consciously controlling what she was doing now.  
She didn't make an effort to talk.  
Words were her shields. She remembered with Jimmy she would come up with something witty every moment so he wouldn't get bored.  
With Davis it was different. Everything was more personal, like he wasn't just trying to look at her or around her, but *into* her. And logically this should have been a frightening thing, but it wasn't. It was kind of comforting.

They hadn't even gotten there yet and the corners of her vision were already clouding. Her mouth was open against his and he kept skimming his fingers against her shoulders, keeping her with him.  
There was a rhythm between them now, not like before, a fear of breaking something fragile, not something primal and uncontrolled. He was a part of her and he wasn't going anywhere.  
When it did come, a few moments? ages? later, she only heard his heartbeat and broken fragments of her name.

* * *

So of course she hadn't expected resting in his lap, against a wall. She wonders what the slow-cooker looks like now. There's no really black smoke yet, so she thinks maybe she'll stay like this, with his chin pressed against her neck for a bit longer.  
It's not like she can move like this anyhow. She's firmly in his grasp at the moment. And she can feel his breath tickle.

"You're watching me, aren't you?" she says, without opening her eyes.

"How'd you know?

"Sixth sense.  
It does not apply to pots. I hope this doesn't ruin my reputation as a cook."  
_God bless him, he doesn't ask her 'what reputation?  
_  
"It is technically your fault. You jumped me! I am only human."

"No you're not." He says. "You're Chloe."

"So I'm my own class of superhero? Now that kind of depends if I can walk far enough to turn off that pot."

"Sit. I'll turn off the pot."  
He straightens out what clothes he is wearing. He looks reluctant to leave for even that minute.

If she has a kink, she supposes it involves talking.  
"Can I ask you something?"

"Everything. All the time."  
Completely unconditional.

"You said something earlier. Something like, 'I thought of you just like this.' What did you mean?"

"I said that?"

"A few times. You're kind of a talker. So theoretically, how many times have you envisioned a scenario with me in it?"  
She thinks its cute how his ears turn red when he blushes.

"It's kind of incalculable. Most of the time it was just that you stayed that day. We didn't have to do much."

It still bothers her thinking of when she'd been trying so hard to convince herself that she'd needed them as much as she did him. He's always, always been honest.

"More specific scenarios. I mean imaginings of another kind. Fine. I mean fantasies. Any approximate number."

"201 or so specific instances."

"Way to blindside a girl."

"Sorry." He's caught on. He doesn't exactly look repentant and she likes it.

"It's in no way a bad thing. Tell me one. It can even involve Chinese chicken. I think you have a thing for that."

"I'm never going to live that down, huh?"

"Never."

"You remember this one time you put me on the stretcher."

"You were heavy and spiky and nearly dead. I remember."

"You were close. I don't really know what happened but you were there." Rather, she'd almost sobbed and kissed *it's* forehead.

"You've had unresolved feelings about the stretcher in the ambulance where people could walk by any moment?"

"Ahm.."

"I'd go for that. We'll do that one first."

For once, she's surprised him.

"I trust you. You know what they say. Not healthy to bottle it up…

Mind you, I might not know much. I'm not exactly Mata Hari,, but I know some things about whipped cream. Maybe not many. And that's about it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm surprised Jimmy didn't tell you after we broke up. He suggested it and I guess I was kind of curious. How was that supposed to work?"

He looks kind of jealous, but he just asks if she liked it. She's in his lap after all, and he knows how she feels.

"It was….interesting. Kind of like a confusing food fight. I don't think it was supposed to be like that."

His smirk is way too innocent.

"Davis. That's number 202 now, isn't it?"

(It's not shocking that when they go for some actual chicken, and he makes a stop at the grocery store and asks her what her favorite toppings are.)

* * *

Lois always likes to check up on her. It's not her fault when, by some bizarre trick of chance, Lois breaks her way into the house with the key under the mat and finds about fourteen different, newly bought jars in the wrong room. Clark never again runs into them outside their apartment without calling first.

Those curveballs are looking up. She thinks to herself. She's starting to like the universe a little more.

* * *

_**Outtake:**_  
_"Hey Clark. Stop worrying about Chloe. She couldn't be better."  
"She doesn't seem quite right to me."  
"She's fiiiinnneee."  
"Enough with the insinuations already, Lois."  
"I found fourteen jars of flavorings at her place. Get a load of this. Coffee. Chocolate syrup. Coffee. Caramel. Mocha mint. Strawberry. Coffee. Hot Fudge. Blueberry. Vanilla…."  
"Maybe she's sick and really hungry. Wait for me there."  
"The jars are on the bed, Kent."_

_"Still want to come over? You might even get a chance to see her."_

_"….Chicken."_

* * *

_**Endnotes: **_See, it really can't be classified. Discuss, discuss. :p


End file.
